It's a Long Way Down
by Channel D
Summary: How did Tim go from having no fear of heights to a fear of heights? It all happened over a stretch of episodes with several cases in canon in the background.
1. Chapter 1

**It's a Long Way Down**

**by channeld**

_written_: as a fic exchange gift for the 2011 NFA _Secret Santa_. The prompt given was:

_ Somewhere between **Once a Hero** and **Leap of Faith**, McGee developed a fear of heights. What happened? Was someone else from the team there? Did they realise what happened? The story is up to you._

_rating_: K plus

_author's note_: I've reied in incorporate as many relevant canonical points between those two episodes as I could. The rest were made up!

* * *

_disclaimer_: I (still) own nothing of NCIS.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"For the last, and I mean the _very last_ time, the book is _not_ about you guys!" Now, how many times have I had to say that to them? Ever since that day in mid-November when my sister had let the cat out of the bag about my novel, _Deep Six_, Tony and Ziva had been hounding me. It bothered me a bit that Ziva, who I had thought was a true friend, harbored all that resentment, but at least she was mostly quiet about it. Mostly. And I could always turn away from her venomous looks. Tony, though, made sure I would hear him, every time.

"I think that's the twenty-seventh time this week that you've said that, McEcho!"

_Thank you, Tony, for keeping count. Now, get out of my brain!_

"You'd just like to forget that, wouldn't you, Probie?" He rounded my desk, unwilling to let the matter drop. "While you go home at night to your computer, throw a ream of pristine white paper in—"

"I use _recycled_ paper," my mouth said before I could stop it. I hadn't mentioned that I used a typewriter instead of a computer, yet. "It's off-white," I added, my mind churning to life one second behind my mouth, and screaming at it to _stop working_! It's just going to make Tony say…

"Oh! _Excuse me!_ Your conservation-ness makes it permissible then, McGreen!"

"That's not what I meant!"

He was still at it, and the end of January was approaching. Almost ten weeks had gone by since they'd learned of the book, and he wouldn't let it go. Sometimes he would leave a printout on my keyboard—one of the bestsellers/fiction list. This week _Deep Six_ was number three. He had it circled, as usual.

Gibbs, when he came in, commented on the bags under my eyes. "Spend less time typing, and get more sleep, Skippy," he said, before segueing into the status of our current case.

Tony, who'd just gone back to his chair, shot up like a jack-in-the-box. "You _are_ writing! _Again_!" he exclaimed, and I realized then that his comments of just a few minutes ago had been a fishing expedition. Now Gibbs' intuition had given Tony ammunition.

"DiNozzo, sit down. Last known address for the sergeant's mother," Gibbs demanded.

I held back a sigh of relief. Safe…for the moment. When we were coming back from Edenvale, aka _The Boondocks_, the other day, Tony had already accused me of working on a second book. What would he say when he found out I was already halfway done with the sequel to _Deep Six_?

* * *

A few days later Ziva arrived at work earlier than usual. I was already there; Tony and Gibbs weren't. "Have you noticed that Tony is being secretive?" she asked me.

A difficult question to answer. No, I hadn't, but that wasn't the point. I feared that whatever I said would only eventually turn the conversation back to _Deep Six._ Ziva's anger was making her more like the "emotionally distant Mossad Officer" that was Officer Lisa. But she was waiting for an answer. "Uh…maybe," I said.

"He has two cell phones!" she exclaimed.

I stared at her. "Okay; I'll swear out a warrant for his arrest," I said, reaching for my desk phone.

"That is not what I meant! I was saying, why would anyone do that? Anyone who is not down to something."

"You mean, 'up to something'."

"See? You agree with me! It is suspicious, yes?"

"Are you sure he has two cell phones? Maybe one is an iPod."

"Even drunk, Tony would not mistake his iPod for a cell phone. No, he definitely has two of them! I have seen both at the same time. I am a trained investigator."

"You know, the rest of the world calls them _mobile telephones._ Only in the US are they called _cell phones._ I wonder why that is?"

Ziva, as I knew, could be distracted for hours…well, minutes, anyway…by discussion on word use. I hoped this would keep the subject away from me.

No such luck. "You are trying to change the subject," she accused. "Are you in on this, too?"

"I don't even know what _this_ is!"

She got into my personal space. "Well, if you find out…I want to know."

"Okay," I said meekly. But in truth, I was perfectly ready to let Tony lead his own life outside of work. It had nothing to do with me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Tony was out to get me. I see that now in retrospect. If only I had 20/20 foresight, I could have saved myself a lot of grief…

It was one ordinary work day in early February; a Monday. I was still pumped over having had a nice weekend. I had been at the wedding of a good friend, Agent Jim Nelson, on Saturday. Tony came over to my desk while I was working on our current case. Ziva was out on assignment. Gibbs wasn't around, or Tony wouldn't have dared pull the stunt.

He sounded very casual, as I remember now. Nothing in his tone to suggest that he was leading me on…just enough of a sly edge so I would know that he was trying to be annoying, but not enough to make me suspicious of anything in particular. In other words, he was just Tony being Tony.

"About this next book of yours…" he said without preamble.

"It's not about you," I said automatically.

"Not going to get into that discussion again," he said with hands raised, and a shake of his head. "I just wanted to say one thing about this…this _series_, would you call it? And that's about your character, McGregor. Your…_self-insertion_, I think the term is."

I slammed my hands down on my desk. "McGregor is _not_ a self-insertion, because he's _not me!_ He is an original character; pure fiction!" Okay, I was lying. But Tony was pushing my buttons, and I see now he'd even done a little research to get the terms right.

"Sorry. I thought he was." Was there a trace of a smirk on his face? "Anyway, I really want to help you out with some constructive criticism." He must have read the disbelief on my face—I'm not a good actor—because he steamrolled on with reassurance. "It's just that I hate to see you droopy and borderline weepy when things aren't going well for you. Sure, McGregor is a strong, intelligent character, and vital to the team with his madcap (even wacky) computer skills, but see, there's the problem."

"What?" I said, after he didn't go on.

"He's _too_ good. Oh, not in the same league as L.J. Tibbs, or Agent Tommy, of course; but still, he's so perfect that you feel like you should be polishing his armor and then putting him in a display case with your trophies. If you had any, which I doubt you do."

I tuned out that last dig. To be truthful, I'd been harboring the same fear for some time now. I wanted McGregor to be admirable, but I'd had a little feeling that maybe he was too much so. "You think that's a problem?" I said, managing to keep a squeak out of my voice.

"I don't think it's something to worry about in your first book, no no no." Tony said in a tone of camaraderie. "But you want to keep your readers, don't you? And attract new ones? So Agent McGregor has to grow. And to grow, he has to have some faults to grow out of."

"Faults," I said, uncertainly. It was like telling one's teddy bear, _Sorry, but you have to lose an eye to be sympathetic._

"Yes! Oh, not many. Just one or two, maybe three classic ones. Like maybe he doesn't stop for red lights late at night if no one's around. Or he doesn't give to charities. Ever."

I winced. Those would turn McGregor into someone I didn't like. "I'm not sure…"

"You're probably right. How about an irrational fear?"

"Now you're mocking me!"

"No, you've got it all wrong! _Lots_ of people have phobias. Ziva said you told her you have a fear of maggots. You 'berted' it out, she said, (which, if correct, makes me glad I wasn't there) when we were going over Petty Officer Davidson's body in that abandoned restaurant."

"It's not a…fear, exactly, but I don't want to write about them. In case my readers are squeamish," I added.

"Thoughtful of you. I don't want to read about McGregor puking his guts out over white wigglies, either. So no Maggoty McGregor." Tony gazed out the window for a minute, and then snapped his fingers. "I've got it! McGregor has to go on rooftops and such now and then, right?"

"If the story calls for it, yes," I said cautiously, afraid of where he might be going with this.

"Then give him a fear of heights! The readers will admire him for having to work around it."

I think my mouth fell open. "A fear of…no! _No!_ That's ridiculous!"

"How so?"

"Because he's, well…he's, well…It's just ridiculous!"

"Are you saying that McGregor is _better_ than your readers?"

"Well…no. No!"

"He's better than his _teammates_, then. You've certainly implied that _they_ have a few character flaws."

Now that was hard to refute. I hadn't been entirely charitable towards Agent Tommy and Officer Lisa, and that had been deliberate, at the time. Just a little twist of the knife; a tiny bit of revenge for how they had treated me now and then. I tried not to visibly squirm.

Tony wasn't done, though. He smiled benignly. "So you need to level things out a bit. Your readers will be more able to identify with McGregor if they can share his life experiences; if they can say _I understand, brother. I, too have fears"_

"I'll…think about it."

"Try it out! I'm sure you'll find it's the right thing to do."

"What do you mean, 'try it out'?"

"Come on! I've heard that you writers research your books! Every creative person does! Ever see the movie _How to Murder Your Wife_? Great comedy from 1965. Jack Lemmon plays Stanley Ford, a successful cartoonist who with his valet (played by the incomparable Terry-Thomas)—since he's loaded— tests out every plot for his comic strip before he draws it. Then Ford marries Virni Lisa, who is capital O-M-G gorgeous, but he can't adjust to being married, so—"

"Stop. I'm not getting married just for the sake of the book! Besides, McGregor wouldn't murder anyone."

"You're missing the point. I was trying to say that you need to do a little work in heights to work up a feeling for what McGregor might be experiencing as he looks down from 20 stories up."

"I'm not afraid of heights, Tony. Never have been."

"And that proves my point! How can you write it if you can't get inside the mind of McGregor, who is? And the way to do that is to—"

"Okay, okay; I get it."

"So you'll do it?"

"I'll consider it."

"You won't regret it," he said with a winning smile that made me sigh.

I always hated it when he was right.

On the way home, I stopped at the video store and bought a copy of _How to Murder Your Wife._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

So I was resigned to investigating things from high vantage points, to put myself in the frame of mind of someone who recoils in terror of such things. This was going to be difficult. Having never feared heights myself, I was having a hard time wrapping my mind around such a phobia. What caused it? What does a person who experiences such a thing see? What's their physical reaction?

I did a little research online, but it didn't turn up much of anything. There were articles about behavior modification (gradual or "flooding" desensitization toward the fear). They mentioned medications and simulations and even hypnotherapy. But that wasn't the point. I wasn't trying to cure McGregor's phobia. I was still trying to _instill_ him with a phobia! I was approaching the problem backwards. Tony would laugh.

I would have to fly solo.

Now, if you don't live around here, you may not realize that there aren't a lot of really tall buildings. The Heights of Buildings Act in the late 19th century placed construction restrictions in the downtown area so the city would retain a European feel. So we have nothing like the Empire State building. I didn't see how I could get a really good fear of heights on just an eight-story building, but I would have to try.

As I'd said to Tony, I don't have a fear of heights. In our case last November when Marine Sgt. Brian Wright fell from the sixth floor in a hotel with a lofty atrium, looking down on the scene didn't bother me one whit. Most of our cases happen on solid ground (with the exception of the ones aboard ships). But even my attempt to get up high found resistance. The city goes to great lengths to keep its citizens and visitors safe from falling,

I started simple; looking over the second floor railing at the Air and Space Museum. It wasn't very effective. There were a number of planes suspended from the ceiling at eye level. It was enough to fool the brain (well, my brain, anyway) into thinking one was on the ground floor. On to the next attempt.

I tried a shopping mall. No reaction, looking over the railing from the third floor. Nada. Zilch. While the Director had Gibbs busy with the Ares module, and training Ducky to impersonate Charles Harrow, I managed to find time to sneak onto the NCIS roof one afternoon at dusk. I looked down at the street, and my only reaction was, _When did those skid marks appear? _Even the Washington Monument, which is really tall for this area, worried me not a bit. I knew I wasn't going to fall. There was plenty of redundancy to prevent that. I shrugged and went home; figuring McGregor would have to find another way.

* * *

I made another trip to the roof of NCIS. This time, though, I was caught by Security, and when I couldn't come up with a reasonable reason for my being there, I was delivered by them to Director Shepard's office. She in turn summoned Gibbs.

"The roof's off limits, McGee," Gibbs said brusquely, with a look in his eyes that said _Come on! You know this!_

"Yes, boss. Sorry, boss."

"What were you doing up there, Agent McGee?" asked the Director, coolly.

I decided to come clean. "It's ah, it's ah, research for my next book."

"Don't tell me you're setting your next book at NCIS HQ!"

"No, ma'am. I was trying to…develop atmosphere for McGregor."

"Who is 'McGregor'?" I heard the Director whisper to Gibbs.

"His alter ego in the book," Gibbs whispered back.

"Ah."

"Just what do you mean by 'atmosphere', McGee?"

"He um…he has a fear of, of heights," I stammered. "I wanted to see it…through his eyes."

Gibbs' look was disbelieving. I felt about three inches tall. The Director looked at each of us in turn, and then said, "Agent Gibbs, please give me some time alone with Agent McGee."

Gibbs left without a word. When he was gone, the Director leaned closer to me. "Agent McGee—Tim—is everything all right in your life?"

"Director?"

"Are you feeling stressed? Having problems here, or at home, or with your family?"

"No, ma'am."

"Is Gibbs pushing you too hard? You can tell me in confidence."

"No, ma'am. It's fine."

"We all get overburdened at one time or another, Tim. Sometimes it can seem like it's hopeless; like there's no way out. But I assure you; it will get better. You just have to wait out the tough times."

It dawned on me then. _She thought I had been going to jump from the roof!_

"Director, I'm _fine_. _Really_. I won't go up on the roof again!" I crossed my heart before I realized I was doing so.

"I have a list of excellent counselors who can—"

"Thank you, ma'am, but that won't be necessary." I smiled to cover my embarrassment. "Can I go back to work now?"

She looked undecided. "If you feel sure that you can do that. But please understand that you are always welcome to come to talk to me."

"Thank you again, ma'am." I left before she could get another word in.

* * *

I had other things on my mind, too. And maybe Gibbs did as well. I was starting to wonder if he had something going on with Colonel Mann. Ziva said I was silly, but it was as good a reason as any for why he wasn't bugging me about having been on the roof. He didn't reprimand me, give me a warning, or even dress me down in the elevator or give me a head slap. It seemed then that he had forgotten having been in the Director's office.

Then there was the bizarre experience of actually _being_ Thom E. Gemcity for an evening. Tony would be so much better at that sort of thing, but it was _my _stylized picture on the dust jacket of _Deep Six_, not his, so I was the passport into the night club for a case. Of course having Abby, Ziva, and Michelle Lee dressed to the nines and hanging onto me was pretty sweet, but still…bizarre.

It put me back in the pocket of Agent McGregor, however. I still hadn't resolved that phobia issue, and I had a deadline approaching on the next book. (I hadn't told the others about that.) It would take some soldiering on.

* * *

When my friend Jim Nelson died tragically in the line of duty in April, I went through a deep depression. I didn't know if I'd be able to pull myself out of it. Even Abby's squatting hug didn't do it. It took another tragedy—a case involving innocent people killed simply because they resemble characters in my next book—to get me thinking about someone other than myself.

It had other consequences, too. Because the crime seemed to be tied into to my writing, I had to let the team see how and where I write. As I would have expected, Tony was like a kid in a candy shop. My manual typewriter fascinated him. He laughed at my prop pipe, chortled at my much-used paper shredder, and sneered at the mood-setting jazz records. I realized he was seeing a different side of me, and was soaking it all in…to use against me someday, no doubt.

* * *

I was still finding it hard to infuse myself with the feeling that McGregor had this phobia. With the deadline for my second book, _Rock Hollow_, hovering over me, I asked for advice from my editor, Lyndi Crawshaw.

"I love it. Yes, I love it," she said pointedly. "Acrophobia. It'll sell. People like to see themselves in the protagonists."

"Not _that _many people have a fear of heights!"

"It doesn't matter. It could be a fear of anything: Riding buses. Scary movies. Germs. Getting married. It's the _sympathy _for the weakness; not the actual weakness."

I'd hoped a few more weeks to work this phobia into Rock Hollow, She turned that down, saying the tweaking I'd have to do would take too long, and she was probably right. But for the next novel, McGregor's fear could all come out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"And are you still having your…_creative stifling_, McNovelist?"

I ignored him. I was tired of talking to Tony about my writing.

We were experiencing a long summer of unremarkable cases. The only bit of interest in coming to work was Ziva's continued pursuit of Tony's secret life. She'd found that he was making frequent visits to a hospital, and eventually, that it was not because he was sick, but because he was seeing someone. As in, _seeing someone_. Ziva poked and poked for the woman's name, but Tony was still keeping mum about that.

After surviving an attempt on his life by La Grenouille, Tony's secret life was no longer so secret. That stung him, but it also meant that he left me alone for a little while.

And then there was the Director. Every now and then, I almost caught her watching me, which was silly. I hadn't gone up on the roof again. I hadn't caused any trouble. But maybe she thought it's the quiet ones that she had to watch.

* * *

Lyndi was after me to send her the first chapter of my third book, so I was pressed to get back to McGregor's phobia once again. Having worked on this off and on for months, I was beginning to feel that I'd never be able to write it convincingly. Then, one day in October, a royalty check for _Deep Six_ arrived, and I decided to do something with it.

I booked a reservation for the weekend at a swanky hotel…specifically, the one at which veteran had died, almost a year before. There was something about that tall, tall atrium that interested me. Oh, the case was long closed; this was just something I was doing for myself.

I checked in after work on Friday, and ordered room service: a fine steak and a bottle of good white wine. I had brought along my typewriter so I could work on the new book. After finishing the meal (which was quite good), my mind kept wandering back to the lavish buffet this hotel had had last November, when the retiring Deputy SECNAV was being honored. I had looked down on that scene from the sixth floor after Wright's plunge. My room this weekend was on the ninth floor.

Full of wine and hearty steak, I left my room and strolled out to see the view to the ground level. There was a big reception going on, with lots of decorations and tables loaded with food. The wine had me a little tipsy. I looked down, and maybe it was because the lights were set to dim for evening, or because the reception area below that much brighter, but I felt strangely off-balance.

Someone bumped into me, and though I heard him rush on with a "Sorry, mac," I banged into the railing and then started to tip over; those lights below beckoning me to come down and join them.

Desperately, my rubbery arms grabbed at the railing while the building slowly revolved around me. I lowered myself to the floor—the nice, solid, ninth floor floor—and willed my brain to make sense of what had happened. I didn't dare try to look down again, where the reception lights were singing a siren song to me. At last, I understood a fear of heights.

"Sir? Are you all right?"

I looked up to see a man in a crisp grey suit and a name tag. Hotel security. "Yes…just a little dizzy. Sorry."

"You ever have that problem before?"

"No. I…probably shouldn't have had the wine."

"What is your room number, sir?"

"Uh, 939. Right over there."

"Yes, sir. Let's get you back in there and you can sleep off the wine."

Oh, great. Now I was going to be on some incident report with the hotel. Maybe my name would even pop up for being on the NCIS investigation team from last year.

The rest of the weekend passed without incident. The first chapter of my book came out well, and so I emailed it to Lyndi. I checked out of the hotel Sunday morning, having carefully avoided looking over the railing again. Maybe it had been the wine, but why risk discomfort if the dizziness came back?

* * *

Monday at work, Gibbs sent me on an errand to the third floor. I happened to glance down from the balcony, and promptly went weak in the knees. _What was wrong with me?_ I'd _never_ had this problem before. My heart was racing, I was sweating, and I felt panic…along with a compulsion to meet up with the floor below in the fastest way possible, which wouldn't be pretty.

"Agent McGee!" The speech was firm but quiet. "Is everything okay?" The Director was already at my side. How did she move so quickly?

"I'm fine," I wheezed.

"You don't look fine. Tim—when I said before that you could come to me, I meant it. I don't want to lose a good agent. I got a call from the hotel you stayed at—"

"Problem?" That was Gibbs. When did he get up here?

"No, boss. No problem."

"I think he should see Ducky," the Director stated.

"He's at the medical examiner conference in Baltimore. Won't be back until tomorrow."

"I'm fine. Really! I don't need a doctor."

"Agent McGee, I really think you should…"

"He says he doesn't need a doctor," Gibbs said with a slight smile. Then he added, "McGee, call down to Ziva and tell her to bring up the file on the Eraser that she and Courtney Krieger compiled."

I gulped at the thought of looking over the railing again. The railing! How could anyone be sure it was sturdy? How hard would someone have to lean against it before it gave way? So much could go wrong!

"McGee?"

"Use your _cell phone_, Agent McGee," said the Director, giving Gibbs a look full of venom. "And then get back to work."

Okay. I was now, officially, inside McGregor's fear center.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_Understanding fear:_ Good.

_Being a captive to fear:_ Bad. Very bad.

Now I was able to write line after line, paragraph after paragraph, about McGregor's hidden fear. Tommy, Lisa and Tibbs didn't suspect he had it. Nor did Amy, Pimmy Jalmer, and the rest. Having a fresh insight in the character made me want to write pages and pages about him, but I realized the others had to be in there somewhere, too. This new plot, I decided, would gradually have McGregor's phobia become known. He would struggle to do his job, despite it, and his teammates would (in the end, at least) respect him for it. Yeah; that would work.

As long as it didn't overwhelm me in the telling…

* * *

Just days later, Irony hit me in the face with a wet towel. The team was called out when a potential jumper, a guy wearing a Navy jacket, was spotted on the ledge of a building. Of course we were going to do everything we could to get him off the ledge safely. But when I suggested to Gibbs that we get a good picture of him so Abby could run in through facial recognition, he gave me a knowing look and told _me_ to do it,

Getting on the roof of the building wasn't a problem for me. Climbing up on the ladder with only air between me and the street, ten stories below…that was something else.

"Uh, boss…I'm not very good with heights."

Without a word, Gibbs snatched my cell phone and climbed up to get a picture of the man.

Sadly, we couldn't save him. A sniper took him out just as it looked like Gibbs was going to coax him in.

Down on the street, Tony started razzing me about my freezing on the rooftop. Ziva was amused, too, though she got in a dig to Tony's rock wall climbing with his former girlfriend, Jeanne. I silently thanked her for that.

* * *

Tony wasn't done, though. Back at NCIS he cornered me and taunted, "A little of the old McGregor rubbing off on you, McFraidy? Have you developed his fear of heights…or was it there all along and you just didn't want to admit it? Which is it?"

"Leave me alone!" I snapped. "I have work to do. You should be more concerned about whether Abby's going to take that job offer she got."

"Oh, yeah. That." Tony's mind visibly switched gears. "There's got to be something I can do about that. She'll listen to me. I'll go talk to her." He started to leave and then turned back. "I'd invite you to come with me, but you're probably afraid of elevators. And stairs."

I threw a wad of paper at his retreating back.

* * *

We were given an addition to our team to work this case: one Nikki Jardine, who was an Intel Analyst. She was nice, knowledgeable, and quite cute…but also neurotic. (I should talk. I know my NCIS profile claims that I'm mildly neurotic.) She seemed to have a fear of germs; evidenced by her refusal to shake hands and her tendency to sanitize everything in sight. I wondered if that was what the fear was like for McGregor…leading him to compulsions that he eventually couldn't hide from his teammates.

I tried to keep my mind on the case of our dead Lieutenant, Michael Arnett, but now and then it would flit back to my newfound acrophobia. Maybe Tony was right…maybe I'd been burying it for years; some forgotten incident from my childhood, when they say these things tend to start. And maybe the Director was right…I might need professional help, and maybe medication. I'd heard that the fear might be overcome through de-sensitivity therapy.

When suspicion fell on the Lieutenant's estranged wife, Dana, we went after her. There was a chase as she tried to flee a parking garage in her car. Gibbs and Ziva would try to block her at the exit, and Tony and I were sent to stop her from higher up, if we could.

Disaster can come in an eye blink. Dana Arnett ran Tony off the road, so to speak, on the parking garage ramp. He tried to get out of the way of her car and suddenly, we heard him screaming as he hung over the balustrade, seven floors up. Gibbs yelled at me to go, but I was already running.

He was already starting to lose his grip on the stone when I got there. He was panicked, too…but who wouldn't be? I leaned over the balustrade, and even though I could see all the way down…it didn't register as a problem. My thoughts were only on Tony as I grabbed his forearms and hauled him up. (Note: This isn't as easy to do as it looks in the cartoons. People are still heavy!)

"I love you, McGee," Tony gasped, as we both sat on the ramp, panting." I promise never to give you a hard time again."

"Yeah, right," I half-laughed. Tony wouldn't be Tony if he changed. But it was good to hear a little humility from him now and then.

* * *

Night time back at NCIS, and the building was shifting to a quiet mode. Nikki Jardine was discharged from the assignment by Gibbs. I felt oddly calm; at peace with the world. Tony had already gone home to rest his sore arms, and there happened to be no one around to notice me slipping out of the squad room.

I trotted up the stairs to the third floor and looked down from the balcony. The vertigo and panic were gone. I enjoyed the sight of desks in little puddles of light; remote from my position, but cheery.

This time I was aware of Gibbs coming up the stairs. "Hey," he said. "Everything okay?"

"It is now," I smiled. Oh, I wouldn't be so much in McGregor's mind any more, but I'd written enough about his acrophobia. That would do.

"Good. You should have come to me when you realized you had the fear."

"It was just a temporary thing. I'm sure there's a clinical term for that."

"Fear of obeying your boss?" he said with a grin, and gave me a mild head slap. "Don't do it again. I'm tired of being asked by the Director if I'm keeping you safe from jumping."

"Boss, I never intended to—"

"I know that, but I know you better than she does. Be glad that I was able to stall her from ordering you to a shrink."

"But Tony—"

"Now _he_ might have some height issues of his own," Gibbs chuckled. "You can put that in your next book, Agent McGregor."

That was an idea! It might be just what I needed for this book, or maybe the next. Agent Tommy develops a phobia…

I ran down the stairs, whistling.

-END-

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